


how to keep the sky from falling

by gracieminabox



Series: horizons universe [5]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Injury, M/M, Medical Procedures, Peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 16:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11294550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: “Phil…it’s Captain Pike.”The Narada, from Earth: before, during, and especially after.





	how to keep the sky from falling

_TO: <all-enlist@starfleet.fed; all-officer@starfleet.fed; all-cadet@starfleet.fed.edu>_

_FROM: <admiralty@starfleet.fed>_

_SUBJECT: UPDATE: Federation Status/USS Enterprise_

_In the seven days since this horrendous attack on the UFP, beginning with the unthinkable destruction of Vulcan, Earth’s first extraterrestrial contact and one of our strongest allies and most valued friends, the Federation has been on a Level Red security status. This marks the first implementation of our highest Federation-wide alert status since the Xindi Incident more than one hundred years ago. Since the Level Red call, Federation member and ally planets have stood at constant readiness for battle, with increased patrols, updated border protection grids, heightened security, and enhanced travel restrictions. We stood – and continue to stand – ready to defend ourselves in the face of any threat._

_UFP is now ready to confirm that the attack over the San Francisco Bay on 2258.43 (February 12) was thwarted by a joint effort from the USS Enterprise (NCC-1701) under the command of Captain Christopher Pike and an unidentified alien vessel, possibly Vulcan in origin. The details of this joint effort are still unknown. At present, short- and long-range sensors give no indication of the continued presence of the Romulan vessel which attacked Vulcan and Earth. However, Level Red security precautions will continue until and unless we receive firm confirmation of its capture or destruction._

_The Enterprise does appear on long-range sensors and appears to be making her way home; however, she is not in comm range at this time. Damage to her warp drive is suspected; the USS Lovell from the nearby Laurentian system has been dispatched to assist her. The aforementioned unidentified, possibly Vulcan vessel is not detectable on sensors._

_The admiralty reminds all Starfleet personnel that speaking with media is not authorized under any circumstances. Media requests should be routed through the Public Relations office, attention: Captain zh’Kreya._

_Please keep the injured and lost in your thoughts, particularly our Vulcan friends. We will keep you updated as information becomes available._

 

Phil had been in the middle of an emergency salpingectomy when the distress call came in. The announcement came over SFM’s PA system, but Phil was so focused on trying to clamp that damn artery that he barely noticed it – something about Vulcan, Hangar One, distress call?

Then his comm went off in his pocket. Phil sighed a little. “Ben, could you come over and see who’s comming me?”

“Yes sir.” The nurse opened Phil’s comm, then read. _“Quick trip to Vulcan. Distress call. While I’m gone…”_ Ben paused, his voice turning entertained. _“While I’m gone, smack Jim for me please. Long story. Tell you later. xo.”_ Ben looked back up at Phil with a bemused and confused expression.

Phil shook his head with a short laugh, then grabbed a sponge, muttering to himself. “Oh, what’ve my boys gotten up to now?”

 

 

Phil didn’t get a chance to respond until an hour later, once his patient was safely in the post-anesthesia care unit and he’d changed scrubs.

_I can do that. Love you._

 

Several days passed.

Things went to hell. Vulcan got destroyed. Earth got attacked. The Enterprise saved everyone.

Phil, who existed in a perpetual state of Worried About Chris, was, well, worried about Chris. But he was reassured, because after Earth’s attack, he’d gotten another text comm.

_I already miss you._

Phil clung to that little text comm like a life preserver – proof positive that Chris was at least safe enough to send it, in the aftermath of everything.

That he would come home and everything would be okay.

 

 

The comm came through at 0357.

As a general rule, Phil didn’t sleep nearly as well if Chris wasn’t directly to his right. It was an odd thing, having gone so many decades with Chris in the next room or the next county or the next sector, to suddenly have a harder time sleeping without his body in easy reach; but somehow, in the seven months since Phil and Chris became _Phil-and-Chris_ , those deep, even, soft breaths that Chris took as he drifted off became a powerful drug, lulling Phil right down with him.

Nevertheless, in Chris’ absence, Phil _tried_ to sleep, and while it might not’ve been the most restful sleep in the world, it was something.

Until 0357.

It was a vidcomm on Phil’s terminal. He stumbled out of bed, raked a hand through his hair, and punched up the feed.

He didn’t know who he was expecting to see on the other side of the screen, but it definitely wasn’t Leonard McCoy.

“Len?” Phil croaked confusedly.

“Phil,” Len said, and _Jesus_ , the bags under his eyes. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize what time it was.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Phil assured. “What’s going on? Where’s Rasheed?”

Len winced. “We lost Dr. Puri in the initial assault.”

Phil’s stomach gave an unholy lurch. He and Rasheed had gone through med school together. “That makes you…”

“Acting CMO, yes,” Len supplied. “Phil…it’s Captain Pike.”

All the blood in Phil’s veins turned to ice. “Chris?” he whispered, suddenly very, very awake.

“He’s alive.”

Phil let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “But?”

Len winced. “Phil, he was captured by the Romulans. Held hostage for seventeen hours.”

 _No, no, no, no, no._ “How bad?”

“Bad,” Len answered. “Centaurian slug.”

Phil suddenly went hot and dizzy. “I…excuse me,” he blurted, making a mad dash to the bathroom and embracing the porcelain with white knuckles.

_(was it only a week ago that phil woke up in the snug little cocoon formed by the shape of chris’ arms around his middle, with a night’s worth of stubble teasing the back of his neck in between little kisses and a gravelly little “g’morning”?)_

“I’m sorry,” Phil said, in a voice that didn’t sound much like his own, when he came back to the terminal.

Len had his head in his hands. “I get it,” he said. Not _it’s all right_ , because it wasn’t, or _don’t worry about it_ , because worry about it, but _I get it_.

“What’s his status? Don’t mince words.”

Len took a visible breath. “I took him straight to the OR when we got him back. He was oriented enough to tell me what happened, but not at his most lucid. I pulled the primary slug from the cecum, repaired the vascular damage, gave him two units. I cleared all the larvae we could see from his CNS and did a neural graft to patch the damage to his brainstem. His kidneys are trashed; I put him on continuous hemofiltration, but I think a little too late; he’s already got signs of rhabdo.” Len ran a hand through his hair. “Phil, I think his chances for retained cognitive function, reestablishment of renal function, and long-term survival are good, but there’s so goddamn much inflammation in there that I can’t be more specific about neuro. I’ve got him on immuchloraprine and hallotragine to try to knock it down, but I don’t have the resources onboard the Enterprise to take him back to the OR and get a more conclusive answer.”

Phil’s hands were trembling on the desk. “He’s still out?”

Len nodded. “And staying that way.”

“What about infection?”

“That,” Len said, “is literally the only way in which he’s gotten lucky. Cultures are negative; no signs of infection. He’s mildly febrile, but it’s an inflammatory response, I’m sure.”

“How far out are you?” Phil asked quietly.

“The Lovell showed up yesterday and is giving us a tow,” Len replied. “Probably about three days.”

Phil didn’t want to ask it, but made himself do it anyway. “Can you keep him going for three days?”

Len’s expression was rock solid, and nothing in the galaxy was more comforting in that moment. “Yes, I can.” He paused, then leaned a little closer to the screen. “Phil,” he said gently, “You know I can’t make a promise if I don’t know I can keep it.”

Phil nodded. “I know.”

Len nodded back. “Then hear me when I say that I _promise_ I’m gonna do everything I can for him. All right?”

A tear Phil didn’t even know was there made its way down his cheek. He nodded. “Thank you, Len,” he muttered softly.

Len’s expression softened exponentially.

“Spock’s in command?” Phil asked, wiping his eyes.

Len actually snorted. “Not as such, no,” he answered. “Jim is.”

Phil cocked his head to the side. “Jim’s…on the Enterprise? Wait, _what?”_

Len nodded. “It’s a long story.”

Phil fiddled with his comm. “He commed me,” he said. “Chris did. Before you left. Asked me to smack Jim for him.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Len said boldly, “you and Captain Pike alike can get the hell in line on that front.”

The comm line was broken with a promise to be in touch in twelve hours, or sooner if anything in Chris’ status changed. Phil buried his head in his hands; the edges of the sleeves on his blue sleep shirt were a little damp from wiping at his tears, and he smelled…he smelled…

_(“was this shirt originally yours or mine?” chris asked as he separated their laundry, holding out a faded blue t-shirt with long sleeves. phil glanced up at it and shrugged. “hell if i know.” chris sniffed it. “mine, i think, but it’s hard to tell.”)_

Phil ran back to the bathroom and vomited again.

 

 

Nobody told two-stripers _anything_.

On a starship, sure, that was one thing. Most XOs held the rank of commander, so there, they were privy to more than their fair share of dirt. Planetside, though, everything important – _everything_ – was _authorized only for captains and flag officers._ Which meant that trying to get _any_ further information on the Enterprise, on what happened to Chris, on Jim, or on casualty numbers, was a completely fucking fruitless endeavor.

It was _bullshit_ , is what it was, especially from an organization to which one had given thirty years of service.

Phil applied for a leave of absence not from the head of SFM, who was fairly new and knew nothing of him, but straight from the surgeon general, who knew Phil, knew Chris, and knew _Phil-and-Chris_ , all well enough to sign off on Phil’s request. Phil didn’t have Chris’ connections in the command division, but he hardly cared; he started leaving comms for everyone from Nogura (not helpful) to Marcus (even less helpful) to Komack (downright detrimental) to Barnett (not helpful, but at least apologetic about it).

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not even for a moment.

Len commed him. This time, Phil was awake for the call, because sleep was a foreign concept now.

“How is he?” Phil asked.

“Stable.” Len looked exhausted.

“Neuro? Kidneys? Inflammation?”

Len sighed. “No worse.”

_(chris came stomping in, cursing under his breath, still in uniform. he was sopping wet from the rain, dripping miserably on phil’s floor. he shook his head like a dog, little droplets of water flinging everywhere from his curls. phil just laughed, wrapped him up in a blanket, and swayed with chris in his arms, right there in the doorway, to hell with the carpet.)_

Phil broke the comm, went to the window, looked up to the jet black sky, and screamed.

 

 

Phil was there with the receiving team in the bay of Trauma 4 when they beamed in. Len and Chris Chapel were on one side, Geoff M’Benga on the other, and a nurse Phil didn’t know stood at the head of the gurney.

And below them, too thin and too still and too _fucking beautiful_ , lay Chris.

Movement started swirling around him from the other people in the room, but Phil barely noticed. “Prep an OR, stat, and I wanna talk to someone from medical genetics about myelin regeneration,” Len shouted as soon as his body had rematerialized. He looked to Phil and lowered his voice. “I’m gonna go back in and reassess to figure out where we go from here. D’you wanna scrub in?”

Phil’s eyes didn’t leave Chris, but he shook his head in response to Len’s question. For all the times he’d patched Chris up over the years, he couldn’t – he just _couldn’t_ – see him on a surgical table in this grave condition.

Len nodded wordlessly. He understood. Clapping a hand on Phil’s shoulder, he turned to the room at large. “All right. Everybody out for a minute.”

No one moved. A surgical tech frowned. “Sir?”

“The patient’s condition is unlikely to change in the next sixty seconds. Vacate the room. We’ll reconvene in…which OR?”

“OR-1,” Chapel said.

“OR-1. Go.” Len turned back to Phil as everyone shuffled out and lowered his voice. “I can’t wait very long; I’m sorry, but I’ll come get you when we’ve gotta go.”

Then he was gone, then they were _all_ gone, and it was just Phil and Chris in the room together.

_(“did you know,” phil said one night, tracing a fingertip over the lines of chris’ face, “that you have a tiny little scar right here, right beside your nose?” he tapped the spot in question gently. “yeah, i think i got it in hand to hand first year,” chris said. “my opponent forgot to take her ring off and really jabbed me.” phil kissed the spot tenderly. “stupid fucking ring.”)_

Phil kissed the scar by Chris’ nose, and his forehead, and his eyelids, and the apples of his cheeks, and his mouth, and he _breathed_ , smelling antiseptic and medication and sterility and underlying it all, just the barest, barest hint of _Chris_ still there, warm and citrusy, and it made Phil fist his hands in Chris’ hospital gown.

“When we get you through this,” Phil murmured, “when you’re back with me and healthy and safe again, we’re going to have a _very, very serious conversation_ about this self-sacrificial cowboy bullshit of yours. You hear me, Christopher?” He ran a hand through Chris’ hair; it was matted, slightly tacky from being unwashed for more than a week, and getting a little long, just how Phil loved it.

“You have one job right now, and that is to survive,” Phil whispered. “Everything else, we can deal with. _Everything else.”_

“Phil?” Len’s voice came from the door. “I’m sorry. I’ve gotta take him in now.”

Phil planted one last kiss on Chris’ hairline, whispered an _I love you_ directly into Chris’ skin, and then watched them push his gurney toward the OR.

“I’ll come talk to you as soon as I can,” Len said, making brief, intense eye contact with Phil, transmitting all the _I know you’re scared I’ll do my best I’m so goddamn sorry_ that he couldn’t say right now.

Then he was gone, and Phil was alone.

 

 

His patients’ loved ones weren’t kidding when they said the coffee in the family waiting room was terrible. It was…well, brown. Ostensibly caffeinated. Tepid. Weak. Disgusting.

“Needs sugar,” Phil mumbled to no one.

_(their first morning as roommates, chris made a cup of coffee, then proceeded to stir in three – no, four – five? – surely not more…tablespoons of sugar. phil looked at him in abject horror, then held up the coffee pot. “would you care for some coffee with your cup of sugar there, chrissy?” chris shot a lopsided smile at him and glanced up out of the corner of his eye; it was a dangerous kind of look that did funny things to phil’s stomach.)_

The second hand on the clock in the room ticked. Why in the _hell_ did the family waiting room have a clock with a ticking second hand? It seemed unnecessarily cruel.

Two hours became three, three became four. Phil got a text comm from Len’s line, obviously typed by Chapel.

_He’s stable intraop. Myelin damage significant. Graft looks OK._

Phil put his head in his hands.

 

 

“Phil?”

Phil looked up into the eyes of Jim Kirk. He stood and wordlessly held his arms out; Jim embraced him tightly, and they were quiet for a few moments.

“He commed me,” Phil muttered into Jim’s shoulder. “Told me I should smack you.”

Jim laughed wetly. “He had his reasons.”

Phil parted from Jim, but kept hold of him by the shoulders. “How are you holding up, Jim?”

Jim nodded. “I’m okay.”

Phil raised an eyebrow.

“I’m exhausted,” Jim amended.

“That’s more like it.” Phil sat and patted the seat next to him, urging Jim to do likewise.

“How long will they be in there?” Jim asked apprehensively.

Phil shook his head. “No way to tell, with exploratory surgery,” he said. “Another hour, maybe two? Maybe more. It just depends.”

Jim leaned his head back, knocking it against the wall. His voice fell to a whisper, like he was afraid to breathe the words – afraid of not appearing captainly, afraid of jinxing Chris, just afraid. “He’s gonna be okay, right?”

Phil’s eyes burned. He looped an arm around Jim and pulled him closer. “He damn well better be.”

 

 

_I already miss you._

_I already miss you._

_I already miss you._

Phil read those four words over and over and over again, his life preserver, his false assurance that Chris was fine, wondering why in the hell he’d gotten this message when Chris was obviously in no fit state to send it.

Only then did he look at the timestamp.

_2258.42, 1003 hours_

An hour after he shipped out on the Enterprise. There must’ve been a subspace delay preventing him from getting it in time.

_In time for what, exactly?_

Phil snapped his comm closed angrily.

 

 

“All right, let’s do good news first,” Len began. “He stayed stable all through surgery. I sent him to ICU instead of PACU, but that’s just me bein’ cautious. The neural graft I did on his brainstem looks great. Kidneys are…well, still shitty, but stable; we’re getting there.”

Phil nodded. “Myelin.”

Len nodded back, assuming his _bad news_ tone. “Myelin.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “On the cord, T11 on down is almost completely demyelinated. Spinal nerves got it a little less dramatically, but still pretty bad.”

Phil closed his eyes.

“He’s got some little patches above that where there’s partial demyelination, but nothing nearly so dramatic. I harvested some more of his stem cells and I’m gonna start working on myelin regeneration as soon as we finish this conversation, but you know that’s gonna take a while.” Len took a breath. “I’m confident I can repair pretty much all of the minor damage. But his cord…” Len shook his head. “A lot of it, sure, but Phil, I don’t know how much.”

Phil stayed silent, processing. _Chris might never captain a starship again. Chris might never walk again. Chris might be in pain for the rest of his life._

Jim put a hand on Phil’s back and rubbed in soothing circles. Len shifted his head, forcing Phil to make eye contact.

“You remember that promise I made you?” Len said. “It still stands.”

_(it had been a bad, bad day, and phil had come home tired and sad and furious and hating the entire world. chris knew exactly what to do; he let phil stew in silence for a while, then ordered them both takeout, and then, once they’d eaten, phil began to talk as chris massaged his shoulders. when it became too much and phil burst into tears, chris wrapped his arms around phil’s shoulders from behind, clinging to him, rocking him back and forth. he didn’t shush him or whisper meaningless words; he just let phil cry.)_

“I remember,” Phil said. “Thank you, Len.”

 

 

Phil slept in a hard plastic chair next to Chris’ bed that night. It was ungodly uncomfortable, but it was the best sleep he had gotten in more than a week, backed as it was by the sound of Chris’ even, steady breaths to his right.

_(the first time they slept next to one another, years before confessions and kisses and forever forever forever, phil woke up to see chris looking at him with an odd fondness. “what are you doing?” phil asked. “counting the freckles on your nose,” chris answered. it was innocent and gentle and phil told deities he didn’t even believe in that it was cruel, so cruel, to taunt him with this tenderness and not give him everything forever forever forever.)_

Chris breathed. Phil slept.

 

 

Chris woke to bad news and pain, and Phil could barely breathe for the cacophony of contradiction in his mind, because all he wanted was to protect Chris from bad news and pain, but at the same time, _oh_ , how he’d missed that pretty slate blue that had been hiding behind Chris’ eyelids for ten days.

But then, no…he watched lights flicker off behind Chris’ eyes as the reality of his injuries sank in, at the likelihood that his career as he knew it was _over_ , that he might never go to space again, might never again do what he was born to do…and suddenly Phil wished Chris hadn’t woken up to hear it.

“You’re alive, Chris,” he said quietly, his grip on Chris’ fingers firm, grounding.

He didn’t have any idea if it helped or hurt.

_(“donwanna go to space without you,” chris mumbled drunkenly as phil fumbled them into their dorm. “don’ ever wanna go to space without you. when you’re not there, things get fucked up. don' want things to get fucked up.” phil grinned dopey and wide from behind a haze of whiskey. “why d’you think things get fucked up when i’m not there?” chris’ voice was muffled by his pillow. “because,” he mumbled. “you’re my phil.”)_

Len gave him a stern talking-to about the judicious use of opiates (unnecessary, Phil thought; Chris hated taking painkillers, he always had, they nauseated him to no end), then told Jim he looked like shit and ushered him off to bed.

Chris looked out the window at the stars that night. Phil sat in his chair watching Chris look.

 

 

Phil was in his chair, dozing lightly, when he heard the sound of suffocated panting and his eyes flew open.

Chris was gasping for breath, but – _oh, sweetheart_ – he was trying to gasp _quietly_ , and there were beads of sweat on his forehead from trying to hold in the sounds of what _had_ to be agonizing pain. With the graft still healing on his brainstem, Chris couldn’t yet move his neck very much, but his eyes flicked to Phil’s.

He looked _so_ scared.

Phil wasn’t an idiot; he knew full well that doing this was going to fuck with the biobed readouts – but he couldn’t _possibly_ have cared less. He lowered the rail of Chris’ bed and climbed in next to him – _I’m on the wrong side; the left side is Chris’ side_ – and held his hand.

“Hey,” he whispered. “D’you remember when we breathed together?”

_(forty-seven years of assuming he was straight and then the abrupt, if beautiful, realization that he was not brought chris a certain amount of unexpected trepidation about sex with another man, an anxiety he had not ever really experienced before and did not know how to handle. phil heard, and phil understood, and phil helped him to breathe through the bits that were uncomfortable or even a little scary until chris not only acclimated but grew to crave it.)_

“We’re gonna do that again,” Phil continued. “I’ll do it with you, okay?” He stroked the back of Chris’ hand, carefully avoiding the large-bore hemofiltration IV site.

“Deep breath in…” Phil coached. “Hold…and let it out. That’s it. A little slower. Deep breath in…hold…and let it out. Good, Chris. Good. That’s _so_ good. Deep breath in…hold…and out. I know it hurts; don’t think about that, okay? Just focus on me. Deep breath in…”

Phil continued to quietly coach Chris’ breathing as it became deep and slow and steady, if still pained. He carefully moved his arm around Chris’ back and rubbed his shoulders one-handed, feeling tiny, tiny bits of tension slowly start to bleed away into his palms. Chris’ tremors of pain slowed, then stopped entirely.

“I…I…” Chris was trying to talk, his mouth somewhere in the vicinity of Phil’s left chest; his voice sounded dry, cracked, like broken glass.

“What is it?” Phil asked softly.

Chris leaned back into Phil’s touch on his shoulders, as much as he was able, and gave a weak, but genuine smile. “I love your hands,” he finally managed breathlessly.

Phil’s face cracked into an enormous, teary grin, and the strangeness of the muscle memory’s reactivation reminded him that he’d barely _smiled_ in weeks. He ran a hand through Chris’ hair, brushing little tendrils off his forehead. “I love your smile,” he responded.

“Phil?” Chris said softly, looking up at him with that same exhausted smile.

“Yeah, love?”

As Chris looked up at Phil, the smile on his face started to crumble, just the tiniest bit. _“I’m so tired,”_ he said in a tiny, terrifyingly weak voice that promptly broke.

Phil leaned over and kissed Chris’ forehead, long and gentle. “You can go to sleep, Chris. It’s okay.”

Chris tried to shake his head, then winced as the graft pulled. “Hurts too much.”

“I know you hate taking pain medicine, but you _have_ to rest, sweetheart,” Phil implored. “Do you want me to get Len to give you something else? Maybe something that doesn’t make you so queasy?”

Chris winced, then nodded. “Yeah. Please.”

 

 

Len brought a cot in after a week. Per SFM regs, they were only technically allowed for a patient’s spouse, or a minor patient’s parent.

“Who’d you bribe to get this?” Phil asked quietly, lest he wake Chris.

“The less you know, the less you’ll have to be deposed about,” Len answered, shaking out a fitted sheet and putting it on the cot.

_(chris deserved an actual bed in their dorm. phil found the futon in a store window while chris was in space. he wasn’t planning to buy, but hell, he had a stipend, right, and what better use for your stipend than to buy furniture for the most important person in your life, right? brown would’ve gone better in his apartment, but he got it in green, chris’ favorite color.)_

Phil put a hand on Len’s arm to still it. “Thank you, Len. _Thank you._ ”

Len met Phil’s eyes, then nodded. “I just thought, if it was Jim in here…” Len stopped abruptly, then cleared his throat. “Well. Get some rest.”

 

 

“Chris, if I recommended a therapist to you, would you see one?”

Chris turned sharp eyes on Phil. “For what reason?”

“Because I think you’re depressed,” Phil said gently. “And I think you need a therapist to help you through it.”

“You _think_ I’m depressed,” Chris snorted. “Yeah. Why would I be depressed?”

“Chris…”

“They took away my ship. They took away my rank. I probably won’t ever go into space again.” His voice cracked on that last point. “I can’t eat solid food anymore. And oh, right – _I can’t fucking walk!”_ he exploded. “Everything hurts and I can’t walk and I can’t do my job and…and…”

_(maine, 2233. one of the rare years chris and phil were both in a position to travel over the holidays. they went to phil’s parents’ house and sat on the roof to look at the stars. “i used to do this, when i was little, with my grandpa,” chris said softly, his breath making little puffs in the winter air. “he made me want to reach up there and touch them.” phil smiled, and loved him in ways that transcended language.)_

“…and the only goddamn thing I have _left_ in the world is _you_ , Phil,” Chris ended, flopping his head back onto his pillows, squeezing his eyes shut against burning tears.

Phil let it hang for a moment, then broke in. “Say that last part again.” When Chris looked at him, confused, Phil prompted, “What you have left in the world.”

“You.”

Phil nodded. “Right. You have _me_.” He took hold of Chris’ hand. “Chris, the Romulans or the Klingons or the Xindi or the inevitable heat death of the universe could show up on our doorstep _tomorrow_ and you would still have me.”

“I feel like the fucking _sky is falling,”_ Chris said frenetically. “I’m _furious_ and I’m _scared_ and I’m _sad_ and I’m _suffocating_ and I feel like there’s no way out of this.”

“I told you something when you were unconscious,” Phil said, looking at Chris _hard_. “I told you that your only job was to survive. That we could deal with everything else. We still can, but we need _help_.” Phil cupped Chris’ cheek. “I will be here with you until the day the sky actually _does_ fall down on us, sweetheart, but I don’t think I’m big enough to help the here and now, and it scares me.”

That gave Chris pause, and he tugged Phil closer to him, knocking their foreheads together.

“Please, Chris,” Phil begged. “Please let me get us some help.”

Chris swallowed audibly, then whispered, “Okay.”

 

 

“I won’t be able to make it up the stairs in my building,” Chris said the day before he was due to be discharged. “Where the hell am I gonna go?”

“You’re moving in with me,” Phil answered.

Chris raised an eyebrow, just a hint, just a beautiful _glimmer_ of that mile-wide streak of wit that decimated everything it ever came across. “I mean, most couples _talk_ about living together first, but…”

“This is, by my count, the _seventh_ time you and I have lived together, Christopher; I know all your dirty laundry by now,” Phil interrupted. “Drink your water.”

“Yes, dearest,” Chris responded.

_(“can i ask you something?” phil asked the morning after the night before as they lay in his bed, chris on the left and phil on the right. “okay,” chris acquiesced. “how do you feel, waking up in bed next to me, naked, with our legs all tangled up under the blankets?” chris smiled and pulled phil a little closer, his breath landing on phil’s cheek. “like i’m home,” he answered.)_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
